Wash glances away as the needle sinks into his arm, looking instead at the unconscious Mal. The Captain looks pale and feverish, drying blood still crusted on his face. “Is he going to be okay?” he asks Simon quietly. The doctor thinks for a moment, then nods cautiously. “He's lost a lot of blood, but he's stable enough for now. The transfusion should help.” “Sometimes I think he only employs me as a walking blood-bank for when he gets in the way of a bullet,” Wash says, eyes now drifting to the swelling blood pack. “Yes, this is the... second time?” “Since you've been here,” Wash clarifies, “Fifth in total.” “I'm... sure he'd do the same for you,” Simon offers, obviously not looking for conversation. Wash sighs. It's not that he's scared of needles, but he prefers someone to talk to when there's one stuck in his arm for several minutes, to take his mind off things. As if on cue, Zoe appears. For a moment she only has anxious eyes for her Captain, but then she meets her husband's gaze and her expression softens. She sits beside Wash on the other bed, reassuring hand on his shoulder. She knows his dislike of needles and casts around for a topic of conversation to distract him with. “We still headed for Beaumonde?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer. “Yep,” her husband replies, “Should hit atmo in about eighteen hours,” He hesitates for a moment. “Doesn't seem much point hitting a delivery we've got no cargo for,” he adds. Zoe nods. “But there'll be other jobs there, with luck.” Jobs for a crew known for not hitting their cargo? The words remain unspoken, but Wash's expression says them as clearly as his mouth could. The blood-pack is bulging now, and Simon deftly removes the needle from Wash's arm. “I'll get on the cortex,” the pilot states, standing carefully lest he should go light-headed, “See what I can find.” He touches a gentle thumb to Zoe's cheek, “You need sleep too,” he adds softly, “Don't stay up all night watching him dream, he won't thank you for it” “He ain't wakin' up any time soon, is he?” Zoe asks Simon, after Wash's footsteps fade out of hearing. The young man shakes his head. “No, he's heavily doped. Are you alright? You didn't get hit?” Zoe smiles ruefully. “My armour did. Leaves a nice bruise but nothing I need to bother you about.” “What happened?” Simon asks, checking the blood-pack is working correctly as he speaks. “Ambush,” Zoe replies simply, “They were waitin' for us when we got there, took us by surprise and took the cargo too.” She sighs and the silence stretches between them, though not uncomfortable. Simon can be as terse as she, and there's a spark of understanding between them in moments such as these. The quiet is broken after a few minutes by the approach of Kaylee, Shepard Book in tow. “How's he doin'?” the young mechanic asks anxiously. “Better,” Simon reassures, “He's going to be sleeping for some time though. I can call you, if you like. All of you,” he adds, glancing at Zoe, “When he's about to wake up.” “I think we'd all just like to sit with him awhile,” Book says smiling, and Simon nods. They perch next to Zoe, Kaylee sitting with her chin in her hand, Book with his fingers interlaced and head bowed. Zoe thinks he might be praying, but its hard to be sure if he's not just deep in thought. Mal dreams on, unaware. * There was a time when Mal's face turned to the earth, not his sky. A time when stars were pretty but not his solace; a mere momentary distraction on a crisp, clear eve. Now and then, he dreams of the dirt again. The welcome warmth of the cow-sheds at five o'clock on a freezing morning, leading the milkers to the machines. The welcome cool of clean water on his face at six in the evening, after a dusty day's work under Shadow's brutal sun. Shadow had always been scorched, the intense heat of day matched only by the breath-taking cold of desert night. But there was a living that could be scratched out there and for a long time it was home. There was company, there was laughter... and there was family. There was a future. Admittedly one which contained rather more cow than Mal might have liked and rather less excitement, but it was solid. He'd been fool enough to think he'd find that missing excitement when the war broke out. Volunteering had made the blood sing in his veins and his stupid chest swell. Pride in his mother's eyes when he first donned that brown coat, tempered with the fear of losing her only son as she waved him goodbye. He'd thought of nothing but glory, the chance not to be interfered with no more by Alliance legislation not worth a damn on a dry border moon. Or so he'd told Zoë, the first time they'd met. She'd met his gaze after he'd stuck out his chin and made that statement. Inscrutable as ever, but looking back on the memory Mal wonders sometimes if he imagines now the knowing look in her eyes. You'll learn, they seem to say. He did learn. He learned fast. He lost sight of glory, and kept God in mind instead. Faith in the higher power. His mother's crucifix around his neck a talisman through two months of blood, death and the decay of young bodies and minds. If he clenched his fist around the wood, worn smooth by years of unthinking hands clasping it in times of trouble (and there was always troubles of one sort or another on the ranch, small as they seem now after that stinking valley of Serenity) and said his prayers, he was almost home. There was a sanity to go back to, somewhere, and he held a piece of it in his hands. Mal dreams of dirt and fire. The orange blossom of the explosions is almost beautiful from his celestial vantage point, blooming like flowers on Shadow's surface. Mal knows this can't be real. He was lying in an Alliance infirmary, sweating with fever and more than a little insane when they bombed Shadow out of existence. The fire storms rage, so vast they can be seen from space, consuming everything. The ranch, the cattle, the farm-hands he thought of as brothers, his mother… all are turned to dust in a moment. Everything burns. Mal remembers the smell of disinfectant, hardly dreaming now, just drifting through memories his conscious mind steers clear of. He opens his eyes, the fever having burnt out just like the fires on Shadow did, eventually. Taking with it the last vestiges of his faith and the last scrap of desire he will ever feel to look at the earth. It's almost morning and the stars are pale outside through the window but still there. They won't burn away and not even the Alliance has the power to claim them all as it's own. Mal knows about cattle, and he knows more than he ever wanted to about soldiering. But he doesn't know what it feels like to sail amongst the stars. “You can't take the sky from me”